


The Martyrs of Mischief

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Annoyed John, Annoying Mycroft, First Kiss, Fluff, Funny (I hope?), I got bored, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Light-Hearted, Little bit of angst, M/M, Magnussen is still a dick, Redbeard - Freeform, Rugby John, Sherlock's a rubbish younger brother, Sherlock's an ass, Sherlock's clumsy, Swearing, Teenlock, They're both assholes, but they look out for one another, they're cute together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, in this world, people are so often overlooked. We judge before we can think. Perched in the suburbs of Surrey, two teenage boys dare not to judge. </p><p>Remaining unbiased and curious, John Watson befriends local schoolboy oddity Sherlock Holmes. Choosing to ignore the rumours and the glares, the pair of them embark on an unlikely friendship - paired by their unfortunate habit of getting into trouble. </p><p>However, their shared love of mischief leads to discovering things that shouldn't be discovered, and a trip to London somehow manages to put them in very serious danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Within the novel of To Kill a Mockingbird, the theme of-"

Tap.

"This is especially present when-"

Tap, tap.

"For example, when Scout-"

Tap, tap, tap.

Every time the sound of plastic hitting wood collided with John's eardrums, his eyelid twitched.

Throughout the entirety of the lesson, all John had been able to hear was the teacher's dulcet drone, punctuated harshly by the pen tapping behind him. The exam was in less than a week, and he was hastily attempting to make notes, even with a sprained wrist he'd sustained while playing rugby the other day. The boy sitting behind him however apparently didn't feel the urgency of making notes. And so the tapping continued.

Tap.

John flipped.

"Will you stop tapping your bloody pen before I ram it up your arse?!" He roared, turning around on his chair to face the guilty pen tapper.

The culprit blinked, and John felt the tips of his ears grow pink as he furiously stared back, all too aware of the blush running through his cheeks.

John had only seen him a few times, but knew of the boy's reputation. Sherlock Holmes was a well known entity in the school for his witty comebacks, wicked insults, and whimsical good looks. Although John had never spoken to him properly, he was fairly certain that whatever was now working behind the mischievous eyes didn't bode well for himself.

Not losing eye contact, Sherlock fingered the pen carelessly before bringing it to his chest and slipping it into his top blazer pocket. As his eyebrows rose, indicating that he was finished, John nodded before turning back around and averting his attention back towards the teacher. It was peaceful for a few moments, until...

His seat was rising. He could feel the two back legs of the chair leave the ground, and then get dropped back down to the ground. The jolt of the legs hitting the floor made John grow increasingly more irritated as Sherlock wriggled his feet under John's chair. He shut his eyes as the chair began tilting again, and the for the second time that lesson, John found himself glowering at the arrogant teenager.

"I swear to God, if you don't stop I will-" 

"- ram the chair up my arse?" Sherlock finished with a smirked, and John glared.

"Just stop." He scowled. 

"Or what?" Sherlock cocked his head. "I don't think a chair would be an entirely comfortable object to have rammed up ones arse." 

"Holmes," John growled "I will hurt you if you don't shut up." He really did care about this test, and he wasn't about to let Sherlock ruin it for him. 

What he didn't count on however, was that while all this was going on the teacher had been eying them suspiciously. And she'd had enough.

"Holmes, Watson." She said firmly. John squeezed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath as he turned back around. "Any more tomfoolery and you'll both be in detention." 

John nodded solemnly, picked up his pen and began furtively making the notes he'd missed. Sherlock, on the other hand.

"Miss!" He called, raising his hand. This alone caused quite a stir in the classroom. Sherlock often kept to himself (unless it was to insult someone's intelligence). "I think John needs to go to the nurse." 

Confused, John lifted his head. He looked towards the teacher, who had both hands perched on her hips. Behind him, Sherlock sighed.

"Why does he need to go to the nurse?" The teacher asked, exasperated. Indeed, John wanted to know the answer too. 

"He's ill." Sherlock said simply. 

"I'm not ill." John quickly reassured the teacher. 

"He is." 

"I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"I'm not!" 

"You're ill!"

"I'm not!" 

"Mr Watson!" The teacher shouted over the argument. "Are you ill?" 

"No!" John implored, growing increasingly angrier. Sherlock yelled over him.

"He threw up this morning from exam stress, he's pushing himself too hard because he wants to please his parents. He fell over during rugby yesterday and sprained his wrist. He knows he's sprained his wrist but is refusing to go to anyone about it because it'll mean that he'll miss out on precious revision time. Let him go to the nurse or he won't be able to take the bloody test anyway!" 

The room was silent. John turned around just in time to see Sherlock sink lower into his chair, looking down at his lap and frowning. 

"You..." John started. Sherlock's gaze shifted, but he didn't meet John's eyes this time. "That was absolutely fucking brillia-" 

"Holmes, escort Watson to the first aid room. Then return here. You'll both be receiving detentions tonight for wasting time." 

Chair legs scraped across the floor as the two boys stood up. Not looking up until they left the classroom. When they did however, they smirked at each other before carrying on their journey toward first aid.


	2. Head Tapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I posted 'Pen Tapping' on Instagram, and people asked me for a part 2. So here you go :)

Detention was boring. More boring in fact than the time he'd had to visit his Aunt Geraldine's, and that had been really boring. There were only so many pictures of cats a person could look at. John's limit (as it turns out) was seven.

Today was another one of those boring occasions. So far, he'd worked out that there were 718 ceiling tiles, 2 missing ones, 25 working lights at 5 broken ones. His wrist was aching in it's newly appointed bandage, and he longed for the moment when he got home and explained to his mum that the reason he had detention was because he'd threatened to ram a pen up a kid's bum, proceeded to repeat himself (but with a chair), and then swear while in awe at how brilliant said kid was. 

In his ear, his phone shuffled music dully. So far it had been quite an interesting mix, but now none of the songs linked and genres scattered. It was troubling him deeply, until someone tapped his shoulder.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" Sherlock's voice came at a hushed whisper. John shrugged and gestured at the empty seat next to him. Normally, students weren't allowed to sit next to one another while in detention, but he was so bored that he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock sat down.

Silence washed over them (save for the Kasabian now playing in John's ear). It remained like that for a few minutes, until a deafening thud sounded and John jumped out of his skin.

Sherlock had face planted the desk.

"What're you doing?" John hissed. The mess of thick hair tumbled over the sides of Sherlock's face, so John was none the wise to whatever had caused the teenager to feel the need to head-butt the desk. 

A muffled reply sounded, but it was unintelligible.

"What?" John quizzed, peering curiously at the thick growth of hair.

"Bored." Sherlock replied, still not lifting his head up. John smirked. 

"And how's your head?" He grinned, leaning back on his chair.

"Hurting." Came the simple response. 

"Let me have a look." Using his now bandaged hand and the fully functioning one, John too Sherlock by the shoulders and hoisted him backwards. As he did so, Sherlock turned to look at him. 

His forehead was a bright, burning red. Carefully, John ran his hand through the curls along the side of Sherlock's head as he brushed his thumb against the red patch, searching for a lump.

"You know," John said finally, withdrawing his hand. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone get a bruise dead in the centre of their forehead. You're going to look like Tom." He grinned.

"Tom?" Sherlock queried.

"Tom. Tom the cat. Tom and Jerry?" Sherlock's blank expression told John that he was clueless, so he decided to drop it. 

The rest of the detention was conducted in silence, all except for John's occasional snorts of laughter as Sherlock kept pressing his forehead with his forefinger, each time whispering. "Ow."

'At least he's not bored anymore', John supposed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you doing anything this lunch time?" 

John blinked as Sherlock approached him in the corridor. It was busy, and he was getting jostled about as the mad rush of students powered their way to second period. John had been making his way towards Geography when he was stopped by the quizzical teenager. 

"Urm," John thought. He'd been planning on meeting up with Sarah at lunch. The pair of them had been 'dating' for several months, if it could have been called dating. Sometimes, John wasn't even aware of what Sarah sounded like; they were always too busy sticking their tongues down each other's throats to do any actual talking. 

In front of him, Sherlock was watching him expectantly. His rucksack strap was slung over one shoulder and his tie hung loose around his neck. Scruffy wasn't the right word. 

"I was planning on meeting up with Sarah," John told him, readjusting his own bag as he did so. The corridor torrent began to disperse, and soon enough they were left in the centre causing the small trickle of students to work their way around them. Sherlock pulled a face.

"Sarah?" He asked, apparently confused. John smiled, he always got a kick out of telling people that Sarah, the Sarah in year 11, the really pretty Sarah, the Sarah who was captain of the netball team, was his girlfriend. He cleared his throat.

"Mmhmm. Sarah Sawyer, she's my girlfriend." He boasted proudly. Sherlock's unreadable face darkened. 

Before anything else could be said however, John felt a beautifully crafted hand glide over the small of his back, and he turned around to greet the lips of Sarah. As they kissed, Sherlock shuffled about on his feet. 

They pulled away, and John wrapped his arm around Sarah's middle, connecting them at the hips. 

Sarah, only having eyes for John, ignored Sherlock completely as she spoke. However, this didn't mean that her conversation with John was a private one.

"I have to go and speak to Mr Whittaker," she told him sadly, tracing her forefinger delicately over his puffed out chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the scene- he'd thought John was better than that. "So... Tomorrow? Instead? Might not get round to seeing you this lunchtime."

John nodded curtly. "Sure, that's no problem. See you later." He smiled, before they starting kissing again. Desperately trying not to look, Sherlock scratched the bag of his head and turned away. 

Eventually they pulled away from one another, and Sarah disappeared along the corridor, leaving a severely lovesick John behind. The whole scene made Sherlock want to be sick.

After a few moments of blind longing, John turned back to Sherlock.

"So, what were you saying about lunch?" He grinned. Sherlock faltered.

"Urm. It doesn't matter, anymore." He replied awkwardly, earning himself a frown from John.

"C'mon. What was it? I'm free now." 

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "It doesn't matter." He said finally, before vanishing off towards his next lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more to follow if you're interested :)


	4. Chapter 4

Lunchtime found John standing in the blistering heat that was raining down onto the school field, rucksack slung haphazardly over one shoulder and corned-beef sandwiches wrapped in cling film in his hand. With no Sarah to snog, and no Sherlock to get up to mischief with, he ended up bored and alone. His wrist prevented him from participating in rugby tackles through fear of making it worse, under the order of the PE Teacher. 

He pulled off his blazer and stuffed it into his bag before beginning his slow walk around the perimeter of the field. White pelican beacons stuck out against the longer strands of grass of which the caretaker had failed to cut properly; they served as excellent kicking material. 

“What've the dandelions ever done to you?”

John looked up to find Sherlock staring down at him from one of the lower branches of a large oak tree that made up the corner of the field. His legs dangled down from the branch from which he was sitting, swinging as he leant forward in order to see John better. John looked up and grinned.

“What're you doing up there?” He asked, ignoring Sherlock's question.

“I'm on a case.” Sherlock shrugged. He paused, and then said: “Come up if you want.” 

John decided to glide over the fact that Sherlock had said that he was on a 'case', and copied Sherlock in shrugging before striding towards the bottom of the trunk and began to climbing up it. Sherlock slid further down the branch to make room for John as he positioned himself into a suitable sitting position. 

They were about three metres from the ground, and surrounded by a thicket of green leaves with small acorns poking through the tufts. The sun shone through the higher branches, causing speckles of shadows and light to dance across their faces as the wind swayed the tree. 

“So...” John started, rocking backwards and forwards on the branch with his hands pressed firmly under his thighs. Sherlock looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “What kind of music do you like?”

Sherlock blinked.

“Music?” He queried, the corners of his lips curling upwards slightly at the question. 

“Yeah.” John readjusted himself so he was facing Sherlock properly. “Singers, bands... Musicals? What do you listen to?” 

“It's not really...” Sherlock shuffled awkwardly on the branch, looking down at the twig plastered grass below as he did so. “You'll laugh.”

John furrowed his brows, but it was in a sympathetic sort of way. As Sherlock tilted his body away, John followed suit so that he was mimicking Sherlock's movements. He found himself edging slightly closer to him, and couldn't help but notice the grass stain that lined the back of Sherlock's shirt. Apparently he'd had to have more than one attempt at climbing the tree. 

“No I won't,” John reassured him. “Just tell me.” 

Sherlock took a deep intake of breath before speaking. “Well, I quite like Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.” He reasoned, but the moment he said it he looked as wish he hadn't. John's expression was unreadable. 

“At least it's not Justin Bieber,” John laughed, and Sherlock cocked his head to one side. 

“Who?” He asked, apparently afraid that John was laughing at him. 

“No, he's a...” John stopped laughing. “Doesn't matter...” 

He watched as Sherlock pivoted himself on the branch so that he was back to facing him. “Alright then,” he said, somewhat defensively. “What music do you listen to?”

The next few minutes passed by slowly, with John's arms flailing about as he excitedly told Sherlock all about his favourite songs. Sherlock listened with interest, keen to hear about what John classified as 'excellent music'. After around five more minutes of exuberant hand gestures, John pulled out his phone and earphones, plugged them in and handed one of them to Sherlock.

“Stick that in your ear,” he commanded, and Sherlock gave him a curious expression before doing so. “This beauty is by Paul McCartney, and it was released in 1973 when the film that shares the same name, 'Live and Let Die', was also released.” He hurriedly jabbed the play button with his thumb, before shoving the phone back into his pocket. 

That was the first song they listened to. Through the course of the playlist-session, Sherlock had some how come to be resting his head on John's shoulder as the leant up against one another. He wasn't entirely sure when it had happened, but John found that his arm had snaked around Sherlock's shoulder, and their feet swayed in unison- as did their breathing. 

However, the tranquillity didn't last as long as John would have liked it to, for the sound of hushed voices came floating up towards them in their heights of the tree. John lifted his head up (which had been resting on Sherlock's), and nudged him. What would people say if they were spotted sharing headphones and leaning up against one another while sitting in a tree?

“Shh... This way...” John's heart leapt as Sarah's voice wafted into his ear drums, and he was about to call out to her when something changed his mind. 

“What about John?” Came a new voice. John gave Sherlock a quizzical look, but he didn't return it. Instead, he looked down awkwardly.

“Don't worry about it, he's probably with those rugby nuts.” Sarah soothed her companion, and John's stomach rolled over. 

“I just don't think it's right, he's your boyfriend...” The other boy said, but whatever the rest of his argument contained was lost as his mouth collided with Sarah's. 

Sherlock swore as John began hastily climbing back across the tree branch, desperate to catch him up. “John...” He whispered, urgently. “Please...” But the sound of John lightly landing at the trunk of the tree told him that his reasoning was worthless. He hurriedly clambered down the tree, ready to defend his friend in the inevitable argument. 

The earphones were left dangling from the tree branch.


	5. Chapter 5

The corner of the field was the most common spot for getting away with something. It was famed for the fights that occurred there. Well concealed from the rest of the school, the tall thick trunked trees stood guard in a circle - making it the perfect boxing-ring.

John's fists were clenched at his sides, with his wrist aching dully in it's bandage. As he seethed, Sherlock collected himself at his side. 

"John," He warned in a whisper, but John wasn't paying attention. "John," Sherlock repeated, growing annoyed at John's lack of interest in what he had to say. 

"Sarah?" It wasn't really a question, more of an attempt to drag her attention away from the boy she was suffocating. 

As John stepped forward, Sherlock instinctively lunged to grab his arm, but he missed. Not noticing Sherlock's failed attempt to get his attention, John began his torrent of questions. "What're you doing?" 

The sight was not a pleasant one as Sarah hastily pulled herself away from the other boy, wiping her mouth. She smiled apologetically at the two intruders, desperately trying to catch her breath after the furious snogging session. The boy's eyes meanwhile flickered between Sarah and John, before resting on Sherlock.

"You?" He gasped, glaring at the black haired teenager standing a foot or two behind John. 

"I did tell you that Lucy was getting curious." Sherlock replied blandly. The boy hissed, bearing his teeth.

He was of medium height, and John only recognised him from football matches. He was incredibly skinny, but not at all gangly and deathly white. In comparison to John, he made quite a contrast; lightly tanned with soft blonde hair and a muscular build; they were polar opposites of one another. 

Whilst up in the tree, John had rolled his shirt sleeves up so they only came down to his elbow. As he scanned the other boy, he readjusted the sleeves making them sturdier should any sudden movements come. Such as punching. 

"Did that mean you had to spy on me?" The boy asked, rounding on Sherlock and forgetting John and Sarah completely. 

"Who said I was spying on you?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. 

"You were sitting in a tree, waiting for us to come." The boy implored, gesturing at both Sherlock and John with one hand. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I was sitting in the tree in an attempt to get as far away from you as possible. Your stench is singing my nose hair. Now the pair of you, apologise to John."

The silence was deafening. Sarah mumbled something incoherent, while the boy set his jaw and glowered. 

The gentle breeze that had been rustling the tree tops stopped abruptly as John's anger heated up. Each set of eyes shifted guilty as John glared at each of them in turn. Still however, no attempt at a proper apology was made. 

Upon noticing the absence of reconciliation, John turned to Sherlock instead.

"You knew that Sarah was cheating on me?" He asked. Sherlock's body loosened a bit from the sharp structure it had taken when talking to the other boy. 

"I had my suspicions," Sherlock mumbled as John gaped. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" John turned to face him properly, ignoring Sarah and her sparring partner. Sherlock scratched the back of his head as John's eyes bore into his. "Well?"

"It's a bit of a-" 

"It's because he keeps fucking up." 

Both Sherlock and John looked up in unison as they faced the boy, the same quizzical stare being shot at him from each of them. The boy stood with his arms folded, a loathsome leer playing on his smirking face. 

"Pardon?" John asked. The boy's smile widened.

"Sherlock," the boy nodded towards the taller teenager, "he's the freak. Right loser, he is. Isn't he, Sarah?" Beside him, Sarah nodded meekly. John's fists tightened. 

"It's true," she said, speaking up at last. "He doesn't have any friends, I thought you might have been talking to him out of sympathy earlier." She reasoned, shrugging. Next to John, Sherlock remained deathly quiet. 

"He's a freak, John." The boy interjected. "Didn't realise you hung around with the freaks." 

\--- 

The ambulance had been a bit drastic, in John's opinion. Anderson was perfectly capable of sitting in a normal car with a broken nose - as he was with a broken wrist. 

He tapped his feet idly as he sat in the waiting room, watching patients be wheeled by on stretchers in front of him. It was horribly boring. Sherlock was still at school, no doubt writing a report on what had happened while getting interrogated by various teachers. Sarah was doing the same, and John presumed that he and Anderson would also have fill one out, too. He didn't even have his headphones. 

It was only when Sarah ran off to get the teacher did John realise that the boy was called Anderson. In between her shouts of: "John! Leave Anderson alone!", and Sherlock's vain attempt to pull him off the wriggling body, John had punched the kid squarely in the nose with his sprained wrist. It hurt like hell. The name had been the last thing on his mind. 

Occasionally the click of footsteps against the shiny plastic floor could be heard, getting louder and then diminishing again as the owner of the shoes came and went. The waiting room was situated along a plain white corridor, with the chairs running parallel to it against the walls. A small stack of magazines were perched idly on the table, and John sifted through them before settling on a Beano. 

It was deathly quiet until the first thud was heard. And then a second, and a third. With each thud the loudness and intensity increased. John dropped the comic onto his lap and peered down the corridor, trying to determine where the torrent of angry footsteps were coming from. 

"Stop running! You're in a hospital!" Came a shout, and John watched the set of double doors with interest, waiting for them to burst open. 

When they did, a very out of breath Sherlock clapped eyes on him and beamed, before continuing his sprint over to him. 

He threw himself down in the seat next to John and breathed heavily. It was almost 4 o'clock, and school had been finished for an hour, but Sherlock still wore his school uniform. He slouched in his plastic chair, grabbing John's comic and wafting it so as to create a breeze against his face.

"You alright?" John asked, smirking slightly at Sherlock's red face. "You look a bit out of breath." Sherlock nodded while gulping in more air.

"I ran." He supplied, dropping the comic and reaching into his pocket for a bottle of water and a packet of skittles. 

John watched as Sherlock ripped off the bottle too with his teeth and began gulping it down. While doing so, he thrust the pack of skittles into John's not-broken hand. 

"I got those for you from the vending machine," Sherlock supplied as he wiped his mouth. He put the lid back on and sank lower into the chair, legs sprawling out in front of him. "What?" 

John grinned. "You got me skittles." He said, tossing the back over in his hand. 

"Yeah?" Sherlock asked. 

John shrugged. "I like skittles." 

"Well obviously," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "That's why I bought them for you. Oh and-" he fumbled around in his other pocket now, with John watching him curiously. "I managed to get your headphones back. You left them in the tree." John grinned as he accepted them. 

"Thanks." He said, stuffing them back into his pocket. "So, now what? I suppose I'll be excluded for a few days..." 

In five years of high school, John had never once been excluded. In fact, the detention he'd received the day before had been a rarity. A knot formed in his stomach as he thought about signing up for apprenticeships and colleges, and then them turning him down for breaking another kid's nose. His mum was going to kill him.

"Eh..." Sherlock pulled a face. "Sarah backed you up in her report. Anderson will kick up a fuss, but he's an idiot so the teachers shouldn't take him too seriously." He reasoned. John tore open the bag of skittles awkwardly. 

He was waiting to have the plaster cast put on. Apparently, sprained wrists aren't to be used in any strenuous activity, and punching someone counted as 'strenuous activity'. The cast would be on for a few weeks. 

Sherlock watched him sympathetically, before growing bored of watching John struggle and taking them off him. He held open the bag as John grabbed some, stuffing them into his mouth. Sherlock grinned and did the same.

"Mr Watson?" A door opened to their right and a short nurse stepped out. She was plump, with a wide smile and sparkling, friendly eyes. John returned the smile; Sherlock did not.

"Yes, that's me." John said, standing up and stretching slightly. He was taller than the woman, and as a result he ended up looking down at her. She balanced the clipboard on her hip and beamed.

"We're going to put the cast on you now, do you know what colour you want?" She asked, but her smile faltered as Sherlock stood up too.

"Urm, red, please." John made a movement towards her, and Sherlock did the same. The woman's smile dropped into a frown.

"Only family are allowed in." She supplied, scribbling something on her clip board. John's brows narrowed.

"I don't mind if he comes in." He stated, trying to keep the tone casual. 

"I can wait outside-" Sherlock began to suggest, gesturing back at the chair using his thumb.

"No," John butt in. "You're coming in with me. Is that alright?" 

The woman surveyed them closely. Sherlock was trying to work his face into that of a serious demeanour, but it was failing in the place of benign confusion. John on the other hand was staring her down. She chewed her lip as she thought. 

"Very well," she said eventually, and John beamed. "This way." 

A few minutes later, John was supporting a bright red plaster cast on his hand, wrist and arm. He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit like Iron Man.

"Never seen it," Sherlock shrugged as John told him.

"You've never seen it?" John quizzed incredulously. "Oh my God. We're watching that. You're coming round at some point and we're binge watching Marvel." Again, Sherlock shrugged, but he was smiling all the same.

It was when they were working their way out of the hospital that Sherlock pulled out two marker pens from his top blazer pocket. He handed one to John, before pulling the sling off from over his head and holding it under his armpit as he commanded that John hold at his arm to the best of his abilities.

"What're you-?" He started to ask, but Sherlock silenced him.

"There you are!" He grinned, withdrawing the marker pen away from John's arm. John tilted his head so that he could look at it properly. 

"Sherlock is brilliant... Anderson is an idiot..." He paused, craning his neck so as to see the drawing. "What's that?" He asked, pointing at the crude sketch. Sherlock frowned. 

"That's you..." He said, twisting John's arm around (John squirmed slightly because of how tight Sherlock was holding it), "and you're shooting Anderson in the head. See?" 

As John readjusted himself, he was able to see the uncannily accurate turd with stench lines emanating from it, as well as a stick figure pointing a gun at it. 

"Thank you," John said, still looking at the drawing.

"For what?" Sherlock asked, putting the pen back into his pocket, much the same as he had done when John had threatened to ram it up his arse. 

"Everything." John smiled, depositing the empty skittles packet in the bin before the pair of them exited through the hospital doors together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit longer than the others, and possibly a bit boring. The plot will start to develop in the next on though, so fingers crossed that'll work out okay. So yeah. Thanks for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

Harry Watson was a hypochondriac. She was currently wrapped up in a large blanket, claiming that she was going to be sick and swearing that John ought to be nice to her, because these were her last few days on earth before she succumbed to her inevitable fate: death.

John on the other hand held no such luck in the acting department, and was therefore forced to carry out his day as though he hadn't been watching Game of Thrones (with Harry), until 3am. This meant that with Harry laying on her death bed, (because she didn't understand that binge watching a programme meant little sleep), John was forced to do her paper round. 

He'd done it for her a few times. It was relatively easy money; he could pick up a couple of quid just by walking and listening to music. It suited him just fine. The only problem was however that it was a Saturday, and nobody in their right mind gets up at 6am on a Saturday.

That was how John found himself ambling slowly down the street, wrapped up warm in his 'Kasabian' hoodie and newspaper bag hanging limply from his shoulder. However, the silence of the morning didn't last especially long, for a deafening shout erupted into the air as he started his trek up someone's drive.

It was a large house. Detatched, with a pebbled driveway and a finely trimmed hedgerow separating it from the rest of the suburbs. The red brickwork of the front had been extended, and a large bay window protruded several meters from the rest of the house, giving a large tiled slant as it tried to mimic the roof. Above the extension was another window that was hanging slightly ajar, with a pair of thick black curtains hanging out of the window slightly. 

"Are you insane?!" 

John stopped as the yell sounded, halting in his tracks. The shout was flowing swiftly through the upstairs window.

"If I wasn't before I am now!" Came the equally as loud reply, and John's eyes widened as he realised that it was Sherlock shouting. 

"Sherlock!" Someone shouted. John couldn't tell what was going on, but whatever it was it was heated. 

"What?!" 

Oh dear, John thought. He isn't happy.

As he stood on the driveway, the downstairs curtains (which were also shut) began swaying slightly at the point where they met. A few moments later, a black nose appeared against the glass, leaving a nice snotty smudge where the dog pressed it's face against it. John couldn't help but laugh as the dog started barking, it's tongue lolling out as it pawed at the windowsill. 

"Sherlock! Get your bloody dog to shut up!" The voice yelled, earning another, even louder yell from Sherlock. Both shouts overpowered the dog's consistent barking.

"Don't tell Redbeard to shut up! You shut up! Stupid idiot!" 

John was very close to bursting out laughing, until a leg appeared in the top window. He frowned, watching as skinny jean clad leg reached for the roof of the extension. The curtain was blocking the view of the body, until a hand emerged too, pulling back the curtain.

Sherlock was saddled over the window ledge, one had gripping onto the sill and the other onto the interior trim. His back was facing John as he slowly began to lower himself down. From what John was seeing, Sherlock was very practised at climbing out of that particular window. 

"You alright there Spidey?" John called. Sherlock's back straightened and he whipped around to face John. 

Wide eyed, he gazed in confusion at the spectator. John smiled and waved at him, but Sherlock's look of shock didn't falter. Instead, he clenched his jaw as a new shout came, to which he didn't reply.

"Sherlock Holmes! Get back in here now!" 

Eyes still fixed on the smirking John, he slowly climbed back in through the window. John shook his head at the ground in disbelief, and a few moments later the dog disappeared from the window.

Almost as if coming to his senses, John remembered that he was supposed to be delivering the Holmes's newspapers, and started to make his way towards the large porch. However, just as he was about to push it through the letterbox the door opened to reveal a very tired looking Sherlock, as well as a very happy looking dog. 

"Sherlock! Where are you-" the person was even louder when the front door was open. 

"For God's sake, Mycroft! I'm making Redbeard shut up, okay? I'm taking him for a walk." Sherlock stepped over the threshold of the front door, snatched the newspaper off John and chucked it back into the house. It landed on the hallway floor. In his other hand, Redbeard started pulling on the lead in a desperate attempt to get to John. 

As Sherlock made a point of slamming the front door as loudly as possible, his grip loosened on Redbeard's lead and the large dog fell out of his grasp, running up to John and knocking him over as he jumped up him. 

"Hello," John said, rubbing the dogs ear as it vigorously licked his face. "You're a big dog, aren't you?" He grinned, accidentally allowing Redbeard to put a paw in his stomach as the dog readjusted himself into a better licking position. 

"Redbeard," Sherlock snapped, grabbing the lead and pulling the dog away. "No, you don't knock people over when they've got a broken wrist." 

John smirked in amusement as Redbeard sat down at Sherlock's side. As John stood up, Sherlock looped the lead around his wrist so that Redbeard couldn't pounce again. 

"What was all that about?" John asked, but Sherlock shook his head and stepped towards him. His Redbeard-free arm linked with John's and he spun him around so that he was back to facing the pavement, before dragging him away from the house. Once they were behind the hedgerow, Sherlock let go. He nodded towards the end of the street, and John took that as meaning that they were to walk in the that direction. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock started after a few moments of silence, "is an idiot." 

"Mycroft?" John queried and Sherlock nodded. 

"My brother. He's moving to London, got some fancy job with the government or something." He shrugged, stopping as Redbeard peed up a lamppost. 

"And you don't want him to leave?" John asked, trying to guess what was going on. Sherlock however had never looked more offended in his life. 

"'Don't want him to leave?'?", he asked incredulously. "I can't wait for him to leave. My parents are doting on him, and as a result he quite literally thinks he's the Queen." Sherlock snorted exasperatedly. "I've never seen one person get through so many cakes." He muttered as an after thought. 

John laughed as they continued walking.

"Wait a second," he said, pulling out a newspaper. "This goes to this house." He nodded towards a very rundown looking house, and Sherlock frowned as he followed his line of sight. 

Semi-detatched, a long, cracked, narrow, concrete driveway ran up to the front door. A rusty red Nissan Micra sat rotting in the lawn, dead to the world. The windows were speckled with mould, as though it had a disease it couldn't shake, and weeds sprouted out from the sagging gutter. Redbeard growled at a ginger cat that sat atop the car. 

"Wait here?" John suggested, as he began walking along the drive. Sherlock nodded, getting a tighter hold on Redbeard's lead as he watched John make his way to the front door. 

The porch stank. Flies crashed into the window as they tried to escape, and water spread through the carpet where it had seeped though the gaps in the woodwork. John covered his nose as he pushed the newspaper through the letterbox. However, as he did so the door pushed open. It hadn't been locked - in fact, splinters stuck out as if it had been forcefully opened. 

"Sherlock," John hissed, turning around to find Sherlock standing mere feet behind him. "The doors open." 

Sherlock frowned and stepped closer, but Redbeard nudged the door with his nose and slipped inside urgently, pulling Sherlock with him. 

"Shit-" the pair of them crashed through the doorway, and into the old, seemingly deserted house.

"This is Mrs Davies's house," Sherlock whispered. "She's a recluse, agoraphobic. She never leaves. Her son pushes the shopping through the living room window. I once snuck in, just to have a look. Almost gave her a heart attack, but she was very nice about it, only tasered me once-" He crinkled his nose up as the full force of the stench hit him. "What does that smell like to you?" He asked. John shrugged, still covering his nose. 

"Blocked sewers and-" he paused, sniffing the air, "- holy shit. Is that blood?" He pulled a face of disgust and Sherlock nodded. 

"Come on," he whispered, stepping forward and motioning for John to follow. 

Redbeard's nose remained only a few inches off the ground during the entirety of their exploration, pulling Sherlock around as he dove to explore various crevices in the walls. Sherlock didn't mind; he was just as curious as Redbeard. 

Dust swirled into the air as their footsteps pushed it out of the worn carpets. Eventually, John decided to stop covering his nose and started curiously exploring things properly with Sherlock. 

Leaving Sherlock and Redbeard to scour the living room, John tiptoed quietly into the kitchen. 

Several of the cupboard doors hung from the hinges, as the woodwork rotted away. The chequered white and black floor merged into grey as dust rested on it like snow; spilled over pasta crated mountain ranges and rat droppings stuck out as log cabins. However, what caught John's eye more was the puddle of blood oozing across the dusty snow scene.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, diving towards the puddle and as a result the victim. A few moments later Sherlock came crashing in, holding back Redbeard as he attempted to get closer to the body. 

She was old, mid to late 80's and supporting a wiry frame. A red patch stained her thin beige cardigan, and her once white hair was now dyed a shocking ruby. John swore as he crouched down next to her. 

"Shit..." He covered his hand over his mouth as his eyes focused on her chest. "Oh my God..." It was rising and falling. "Sherlock, she's alive." 

The woman coughed, her eyes shut tight. "Hello? Mrs Davies?" John asked, hearing Sherlock dial his phone in the background. "I'm John Watson, can you hear me?" 

"... Police, and an Ambulance if you will. An old lady's been stabbed..." 

Mrs Davies nodded her head slowly, dried blood clung to the corners of her mouth. "That's good, now I want to focus on my voice, can you do that for me?" John asked, hastily checking her over. Behind him, Sherlock ended the call.

"They'll be here in 15." He said, tying Redbeard's lead to the handle of one of the not broken cupboards and crouching down next to John. "She's been stabbed..." He muttered, drinking her in. "Who did this to you?"

"Sherlock-" John whispered angrily, but Sherlock paid him no attention. 

"Mrs Davies," John couldn't get over how strong Sherlock's voice was, despite the fact that there was a woman dying on the floor in front of them. "I need you to tell me who stabbed you." Mrs Davies shook her head. "You don't know?" She shook her head again. "Brilliant..." Sherlock groaned, falling backwards into the dust covered floor. John glared at him. 

"It'll be okay, Mrs Davies. The ambulance is on it's way." The woman didn't reply. 

Several minutes later the sound of sirens could be heard and Redbeard started barking as the ambulance and police cars rolled up. Sherlock immediately leaped up to point them in the right direction, leaving John still crouched next to the old woman. 

They carried her out on a stretcher, and the cat slunk off as the police began pouring onto the scene. John managed to find his own way out of the house, untying Redbeard and bringing him out, too. When he eventually got outside however, he was met with an onslaught of very grumpy looking police officers. 

"It was her son," John craned his neck as he heard Sherlock talking. "Yes, I do know what I'm talking about. She was in the early stages of dementia. On her coffee table was a leaflet about it. She never left the house, and so her son always did the shopping for her, always passed it through the window. If you go in the house you'll find several plastic bags worth of shopping, meaning that he's visited recently. But the window-" John watched through the crowd as Sherlock pointed at it "- when we got here was locked.

"The door however was open. Her son came to deliver her shopping; he'd already found out about the dementia is my guess. He already had to do the shopping for her, imagine if he had to deal with explaining everything all the time? Especially when he wasn't even allowed in the house. So, he kicked down the door and killed her with the closest thing to him, one of those knives in the knife holder. You'll find that one of them is covered in blood. And then he left, leaving his poor mum to die. I think that's about everything." 

John had only seen Sherlock pull off one of his deductions before, and that was when they were in English. But that was nothing compared to the way he reeled off how and why the woman had been stabbed. His mouth hung open, and even Redbeard seemed to be slightly in awe at the madly waving hands as the owner of them excitedly told the Detective Inspector what had happened. Suddenly, John realised that his mouth was hanging open and shut it. 

"And you were delivering papers?" The DI asked, and Sherlock nodded.

"With John." He supplied, nodding towards him. 

"Right." The man said, nodding slowly and not appearing to believe what Sherlock had just told him. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, by the way. I'm afraid we're going to have to take you into the police station for questioning. Shouldn't take too long." 

However, just as he was speaking a large van rolled up and a series of cameras flashed. Suddenly, the driveway was inundated with reporters and camera crews. 

Lestrade groaned, and ushered Sherlock over to John. "Stay here," he warned, and the pair of them nodded as Lestrade began talking to the masses. 

"Do you think we'll be in the paper?" John asked jokingly, nudging Sherlock slightly. Before Sherlock could reply however, a reporter materialised in front of them. 

"Be in the paper?" She asked, pushing a pair of square rimmed glasses up her long, slightly spotty nose. "Why should you two be in the paper?" 

John frowned. "We discovered the body," he told her. Next to him, Sherlock kicked him and muttered something. The woman's eyes widened. 

"Did you?" She breathed excitedly, pulling out a reporters notebook and hastily making notes. 

They spoke to her for a while, unaware of the damage reporters can do. Until Lestrade came jogging over.

"Nope, go away. Stop talking to them. John, Sherlock, with me." 

The pair of them hurried off after Lestrade and into his police car. Redbeard sprawled out across their laps, tongue sticking out as he panted. 

It was in the police car that John's phone started vibrating. He frowned as he read it, before showing Sherlock the headline of the local newspaper that everyone was sending him:

'Teenage boys solve murder of old woman- The Sleuths of the Youths' 

Next to him, Sherlock groaned.


	7. Chapter 7

He liked dragons. It really was as simple as that. The fire breathing mythical creature had captivated the boy's attention ever since he was little. Though through general progression of learning that mythical creatures (such as dragons) do not exist, the boy had moved on to different magnificent creatures. Such as dinosaurs. Because really, how different were dragons and dinosaurs really?

The boy would describe them both as being brilliant, but they also shared similar characteristics. For example, when someone says 'dinosaur', one would typically picture a Tyrannosaurus Rex, sometimes a Velociraptor and maybe even a Diplodocus. But when someone says 'dragon', most often the result is an epic fire breathing monster with wings. 

Essentially, dinosaurs and dragons are both paired with destruction. Maybe that's why the boy liked them so much.  
Either way, when news got out about his little obsession, it caused a bit of a stir. Despite it being a perfectly innocent thing to be fanatic about. But people don't go bragging about what they like. It's just not done. There are certain rules that must be obtained at all times. There are some things that aren't meant to be spoken. Such as how amazing dragons are.

If a person were to express their interest in something, that something would ultimately become their weakness and destroy them as a result. It was just the way it went. Manipulation is easy if the manipulator knows how to manipulate. If that makes sense.

Poor Benjamin Gruber had delightedly told the world of his undying love for the mythical and the extinct animal, and as a result he'd lost his head.

Not literally, of course. That would be rather awful and quite frankly horrible to talk about. Nevertheless, Benjamin's sudden outburst of the magnificent creatures had been his downfall. Suddenly, to declare what you love was taboo. It made you weak. It gave people the ideal tool for manipulation. It was common teenage law.

Therefore, when rumour got out that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were friends, people gawped at them with wide eyes and narrow minds.   
John first noticed the disturbance as he settled himself down in maths. The rumours buzzed around his head like flies, and only his own stubborness was enough to swat them away. Most of them involved Anderson's nose, although (as the rare few people who read the newspapers began their gossiping) they were quickly turning into tales about the almost-murder they'd stumbled across. 

After leaving the police station, both Sherlock and John had gone their separate ways. The texts and phonecalls had come in thick and fast for John, all congratulating him. Although he wasn't entirely sure what for. He hadn't heard anything from Sherlock since the event, and was desperate to find him at break as a result. 

"John?" That was Sarah. He looked up at her from where he was sitting and smiled. She swooped down on him enthusiastically and hugged him. "You were so brave, on Saturday. Barging into that house with a broken wrist..." John coughed awkwardly. "Anderson's forgiving you for his nose, by the way. He's going to deal with Sherlock himself later." She pulled away, grinning and stroking his hair fondly. John frowned.

"Deal with Sherlock?" He echoed. "What do you mean?" Sarah's face dropped as he stopped caressing his hair.

"Well, he's the one who dragged you into that house, isn't he? Honestly John, you're so brave... I wouldn't even share a desk with that guy. Forget letting him point a knife at me." 

Confused wasn't the right word to explain John's mood. He gazed at Sarah quizzically, trying to work out what she'd said. Just then however the bell rang, and she darted off to gather her things. 

-

By the time John got to the school's courtyard, it was already amass with students of all different year groups. 

A few years a go, in order to make the school more 'eco-friendly', they installed large wooden crates and filled them with soil. While most of the plants had been tampled now, the crates made for excellent stools. 

Today, people stood on them as they chanted, all focused on one point. John stayed near the back, unseeing the situation. 

"This is so cool, isn't it?" A weedy year 7 boy materialised at his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear as he stood on his tiptoes.

"What's cool?" John asked, looking down at him while the boy climbed onto one the crates. 

"The fight!" The boy replied excitedly, ringing his hands together as he strained to get a better look. John rolled his eyes. 

"For God's sake..." He muttered, using his elbows to fight his way through the throng. 

When he eventually reached the centre, he was greeted by the sight of a gang of boys circling another. Just a few snippets of the conversation could be heard over the shouts of the rest of the school. 

"You punched Anderson in the face, didn't you?" That was George. In the same year as John, he was a strong player on the rugby team. Large and muscular, he towered over his groups' victim maliciously.

"No."

That was the first hit. 

"Wrong answer. You took John into that house, didn't you? Tried to stab him, didn't you?"

John's stomach lurched. 

"No, and no."

That smack was to the other cheek. 

"You-"

John wasn't quite sure when he'd started walking, but he suddenly found himself in between George and Sherlock. George was snarling at him, and John glared back. Without leaving George's silent staring contest, he felt behind him and cupped Sherlock's hand in his own; he needed to reassure him that he was there.

"Leave him alone," he spat. "Sherlock didn't do anything to me. I punched Anderson when I caught him snogging Sarah. Sherlock was merely witness. Now leave him alone before I punch you into the next world." Sherlock's hand tightened around his own, and John felt hundreds of eyes penetrating the contact. George smiled. 

There were a few things that John knew were his major flaws. One of them was becoming extremely gullible while under pressure or angry. Therefore, as George's face changed into that of shock while he stared at the slab next to John's right foot, John looked down too. 

"Whoops!" George yelled as Sherlock went stumbling backwards, the right hook landing firmly against his face. John realised his mistake too late, and a few moments later he launched himself at George. He didn't see where Sherlock went. 

"Boys!" 

Considering he was wearing a cast, John thought he was doing a bloody good job off fighting the bully. 

"Watson! Harper! Stop fighting this instant!" Mr Major barged through the crowd and pulled the two boys apart. Through the white hot rage cascading through John's sense, he quickly escaped the clutches of the foreboding teacher's grasp, and he scarpered off in search of Sherlock.

\--

He found him eventually. The PE changing rooms were dark, having been deserted all morning. John frowned as his pushed the door open.   
If it hadn't have been for the slither of light that ran into the room as the door opened, John would have passed onto his next location. Except, the light was there and so he was able to get a clear look at the curled up teenager hiding in the corner.

Quietly, so as not to disturb him, John shut the door and carefully made his way over. 

"Hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sherlock? You okay?" 

He crouched down, squatting down next to him until he was sitting too. Sherlock nodded stiffly. 

John fumbled around in his pockets before extracting his headphones, pulling them out and handing one to Sherlock. He accepted it silently before sticking it into his ear.

They sat for a while, daydreaming and thinking silently about the day's events. Eventually, John came to the conclusion that Sherlock smelled of the honey scented shampoo that his Nan bought him for Christmas, and as he gently coaxed the curls the faint scent of cigarette smoke wafted into existence; disturbed as John's finger tips twirled the unruly locks around them. 

He stopped, coming out of his stupor. He was smelling Sherlock. As he looked down, he drank in the situation he'd allowed himself to get into to.

Sherlock's back rested against John's chest, and their legs intertwined with one another. John's leg was bent upwards, as Sherlock's knee wrapped around it tightly underneath. Their breathing was soft, their chests rising and falling as one. Beside them, John's headphones played music just loud enough for the two of them to hear the faint whispers of the melodic rhythm, and John tapped his hand lightly against Sherlock's side. 

The pair of them lay sprawled in an entanglement of limbs and quiet sighs in the changing room for what felt like a blissful eternity. 

John's hand skated absent-mindedly over Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath at the touch.

"Shit... Sorry." John whispered. "Did that hurt?" 

Sherlock gave a small nod and buried himself further into the crook of John's arm, still allowing John's other arm to incase him as though it were a protective shield. Satisfied that Sherlock was in a comfortable position, John started to ask questions.

"Why were they ganging up on you?" He asked, as his hand somehow strayed across Sherlock's and Sherlock held it in place, tracing his thumb over John's palm. He sighed heavily, too deep in thought as he watched his thumb trace the creases in John's hand.

He shrugged as his body further melted into John's, who rolled his eyes at Sherlock's lax answer. 

"Sherlock..." John prompted, causing Sherlock to wriggle as though it would help in preventing him from answering the question. John held onto his hand tighter, hoping perhaps that if he held on, Sherlock wouldn't escape and avoid the topic.

"I argued back. They didn't appreciate it much." Sherlock supplied, deflated. Upon hearing the tone in his voice, John tilted his head so that it rested on Sherlock's crown. 

"They're idiots. You solved a potential murder. Just ignore them," John suggested as Sherlock hummed a reply. He smiled, and the two remained in their lounging position for a very long time.

Eventually however, the sharp shrill shot through the air that signified the next period. The two boys jumped, but it was only John who made the effort to stand.

"No-" Sherlock argued in protest as John lifted him into a more reasonable seating position as to free himself. As John stood up, Sherlock crawled forward and grabbed the hem of his trouser leg. Surprised, John looked down incredulously at Sherlock.

"What're you doing?" He asked, as Sherlock wrapped his other arm around his leg. Using it as support, he pulled himself across the floor. He then wrapped his legs around John's and buried his face in the gap between his own arm and John's leg.

"Don't leave." The whisper was almost inaudible, as though someone had wrapped a pillow around John's ears muffling the sound.

"We have class..." John started, but against his calf Sherlock's head shook in protest. "Sherlock, what's gotten into you?" He asked, attempting to relieve himself of limpet-Sherlock by bending over and prying his tight grasp away. Whenever he successfully managed it however, the limb would fall back in place with more strength than before.

"Sherlock!" 

"Don't leave me." Sherlock muttered, strangely louder than before. 

"Okay," John said quickly, crouching down again. "Okay, I won't." He settled himself down again, and Sherlock curled into his lap.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" He asked, startled by Sherlock's movements. 

"I might have read your emails earlier." Sherlock muted, still not looking up. John furrowed his brows. 

"Because that's not creepy at all," he frowned. 

"You got that apprenticeship." 

At the start of the year, the teachers had all been hammering the students about what they were going to do when they left. John had applied for various colleges and sixth forms, as well as several apprenticeships. The main one however was with 'The Daily Post', working as a reporter over seas in a war zone environment. He'd applied on a whim.

"You what?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"No, you, not me. You got that apprenticeship. In London. So you'll be moving there. Won't you?" Sherlock sat up. 

"I dunno." He hadn't had the chance to check his emails since the previous night, but he'd signed the apprenticeship off as a right-off. "I have absolutely no idea."


End file.
